Push
by TheCanadianConspiracy
Summary: A drunk Russia wants America to give him a push, just not the kind of push he's thinking of. Slight RusAme.


**Push**

America was awakened to the sound of rain lashing his window and the shrill doorbell assaulting his eardrums.

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Lifting his head off the table – while that godforsaken doorbell was still ringing – a piece of paper stuck to his cheek. He ripped it off and got up from his chair. He had been working for what must have been two days straight, and just when he had finally fallen into some much-needed sleep, somebody _had_ to come calling. Figures.

America ambled to the door; the bell was still sounding off. Whoever was calling him must be very desperate, or very cruel. He had been working on something important before he fell asleep. His thoughts were still consumed by it as he flicked on the porch light and turned the doorknob. There was a very crucial, detailed report he had to write for his country's Senators regarding the recent nuclear arms treaty between himself and Russia –

– And speak of the devil.

He opened the door and there stood Russia, in all his (overgrown, socialist, probably drunken) glory. The taller nation teetered a little on the spot – yep, if he wasn't drunk already, he was definitely getting there, which was somewhat frightening since Russia was a freakin' _tank_ – not like he was intimidated, though, not in the least. He said his (slurred) greeting and America could faintly detect the smell of vodka through the damp air. He raised an eyebrow.

"What is it, Russia?" Really, it had better have been something important. If this was just some drunken late-night joke, then in his half-awake state he might as well say 'to hell' with the treaty and replace his missiles in Turkey, just to piss him off.

Russia leaned against his door frame. "America . . . _-hic-_ you will give me a push, da?" he said, giggling slightly even as the rain came down in sheets over his head.

America blinked at him. The rain had plastered his pale hair to his forehead and his violet eyes were still bright with something – despite the fact that he was obviously drunk – looking at him hopefully. They seemed to reflect the warm golden light of the porch lamp. It wasn't a bad effect, and he felt a weird fluttering in his stomach. He coughed and glanced away. "Y-you want me to give you a push?" He had to think clearly. Here was Russia, asking him to get his car on the road? And while he was stinking drunk? _Well_, he thought, _wasn't that just dandy_. He scoffed a little.

"Da," Russia said. He missed his incredulity and smiled slightly. "Unlessh you are too weak and frail, дорогая моя?"

America bristled and folded his arms. "I'm not weak, it's that you're too drunk! As to be expected."

"What doesh it have to do with -_hic_- being drunk?" Russia asked, genuinely confused. Sure, the alcohol wasn't helping his cognitive skills, but America just wasn't making any sense. Maybe he was drunk too? He brushed his rain-slicked bangs out of his eyes and America just shook his head.

"Everything, you big dumb Ruski. You really don't care about anyone, do you?"

"I do not understand," he replied, desperation lacing his voice through the intoxication. Why was America so opposed to his simple request? Surely it wasn't too much to ask to put aside their differences for a half-hour? "I am just _-hic-_ wanting a simple push at - "

America sighed. "Yeah, I'd like to give you a push. Right off a cliff! Now go find a hotel or something." And he slammed the door in his face.

He turned away from the door. "I'm so witty," he said, climbing up the stairs to go to bed. He nestled in between the covers and tried to forget about the whole encounter, how he had sent the other out alone into the cold night, into the rain – he didn't even have an umbrella with him. He shut his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Guilt wasn't nagging at his insides. Not at all.

* * *

America turned over in bed. He had been trying to fall asleep for at least thirty minutes now, if his bedside clock was telling the truth. He couldn't get Russia off his mind, and it was keeping him awake. And blaming it on the rain pounding the earth outside wasn't helping.

He stared up at the ceiling. Had it been such a wise thing to turn him away? He might've found help from some human who was stupid enough to let him drive even though he was clearly drunk. America was well aware of what a bad situation that could be. He could end up killing other people. He might even take his own life – America dismissed the thought. It took more than that to kill a nation, he was sure.

But still, wasn't it dangerous? What if - ?

America got up from bed. He made his decision. He was going to find him.

_(Not like he was concerned about him or anything.)_

* * *

He had been driving around the neighbourhood for a while before he found Russia. He was at the local playground, sitting at a swing. The image of such a large man sitting on the little plastic seat would've been funny if he didn't look so utterly dejected. He was no longer wearing his coat, and through the light of the street lamp America could see that his dress shirt was soaking through with the rain. America parked his car on the side of the road, grabbed his umbrella, and trudged across the slick grass to meet him.

America pulled his bomber jacket tighter around himself. Up closer he looked even more pathetic. After all, he was sitting alone in the rain. After America himself told him to get lost. Looking at him, he felt terrible, like he had just kicked a puppy. Actually, he felt like he had kicked a _handicapped_ puppy, which made it all the worse. Maybe they were enemies but America felt fairly unheroic at that moment.

"Russia?" he said. The nation looked up at him and sent him a little smile.

"Привет, you capitalisht pig." Only Russia could say a thing like that with a smile on his face. The bastard. He kicked off a little from the ground, gravel crunching under his boots. "Will you _-hic-_ give me a push now?"

America looked utterly confused. What the hell was he talking about? He still hadn't seen anything that looked like Russia's broken-down vehicle. He frowned. "What, you don't - " The slight creaking of the swing reached his ears and suddenly it all clicked into place. He wanted a push . . . on the swings! That actually made sense, in some childish, ridiculous, demented sort of way.

When he made no immediate reply, Russia sent him another one of those hopeful looks, purple eyes meeting blue. He felt a warm flush spread up his body despite the cold air surrounding him. He was actually . . . adorable. Even while drunk as a skunk. America glanced away.

"OK," he muttered, coming over to stand behind the sitting European. He folded up his umbrella and put it down; he couldn't very well give the other a push with just one hand. "But you owe me after this. I'm probably gonna die from a cold and it'll be all your fault."

Russia grinned. "Da. That would be a tragedy indeed, America." There was only the barest hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Shut up." America placed his bare palms against the flat of the other nation's back. He could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, even under his soaking shirt. _Dammit_, he was _not_ blushing! Shaking the water droplets off his head, he gave him a push – perhaps a bit harder than necessary – and went to sit on the adjacent swing, huddling in his jacket against the cold. He sat next to him until he seemed to grow bored of the swinging, slowing down by dragging his heels in the gravel. Russia turned to glance at him and stood up. America did the same.

"You should probably get home, da?" Russia looked at him with something that was not quite a smile. He seemed to have sobered up a bit by this time, from the rain and the cool night air. "Before you die of cold."

"Pfft." America rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine. I was only joking back there. It's _yourself_ you should be worried about, Commie."

After that they fell silent, the only sound created by the falling rain. Russia made no move; he seemed to be waiting for America. America, whose expression had turned troubled. A few more seconds passed and he seemed to have made a decision. He shrugged off his bomber jacket. Russia raised his eyebrows at the other nation as he moved behind him to drape the article over his shoulders.

"Here, take this . . . " It was a bit too small for him to wear, but it would keep him warm for the time being.

Russia said nothing, but he did send the other a smile that looked far too smug for America's liking.

"What?" America said, turning a little pink. "It's not like I'm worried about you or anything. You could die in the gutter for all I care."

"You are a good friend, America, when you are not acting like a moron." In a way America wanted to punch him for saying that, but he found himself sharing his smile all the same. It's not like anyone had to know they were actually being somewhat civil to each other. He would blame it on the sleep deprivation. For now.

They began walking out of the park. It was a strange situation, but then again, he had to have experienced worse things than playing with a drunken nation on the swings in the middle of a rainy night. With Russia, it was better not to question such things. And America was strangely OK with that.

* * *

Translations (all Russian)

Da = yes (I doubt anyone didn't know this, though . . .)

дорогая моя = darling/my dear

Привет = Hello

**A/N:** A re-post from the kink meme. This is my first time writing RusAme, so I'm not sure if they're both acting as they should o.O Ah well, I still had fun writing it. Review, maybe?


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